Oh Simple Thing
by twihardandveryobsessed
Summary: Two brothers. One huge mistake. A shot heard around the world. Rated T for language and emotions.


**A/N: No USxUK because we don't ship. Sorry. **

Alfred sat in the grass under the shadow of yet another marble statue that had something to do with his past... they always did. Although this one was particularly painful... Yet he sat under it anyway, trying hard not to remember it.

He actually had absolutely no idea what he was doing whatsoever.

The wind was blowing, but people were still out and about, all around him, the noise they made drowning into the back of his mind.

He'd been talking to Japan earlier about stress, and he suggested he meditate.

Whatever that meant.

His nose twitched. He couldn't take sitting still for so long. He always had to be up and about...

This was just boring.

Plus his feet were getting numb and he supposed that prevented him from moving...

So what exactly _was _he doing?

Arthur walked through crowds of people, a barrage of thoughts buzzing in the back of his mind. In the distance, a large marble memorial poked out through the hoards of taller people around him. He felt drawn to it oddly, as if his past wanted to embrace him again. He could make out the body of his former charge as he approached the statue, wondering why the hell he was there. _'Why am I even in America?'_

Alfred stared up at the statue of the Minuteman. The clouds were coming in, though the sun was still shining. He heard thunder... but he could still feel sunlight.

Strange coincidence he'd be in this spot in this weather...

He blinked as a passerby kicked him in the shin.

All the energy that he kept in while sitting burst out of him, and he stood up angrily. "Hey, watch where you're going, jerkas-"

He looked up to bright green eyes and staggered back a few steps. Nothing could stop his thoughts from floating back to that day long ago...

Arthur stared glumly up at the tall American. He knew that today was a rather...sad day, for both Alfred and him. The speech that he had thought up on the way to the memorial was long forgotten. The Brit found that no words could come out of his mouth. He just sighed, staring sadly at the memorial behind his little brother.

"I'm...sorry."

Alfred tried for a grin, but it ended up weak, and more of a grimace than a smile.

"What, stepping on me? Used to it."

But he saw that Arthur wasn't laughing- wasn't even looking at him- but up at the tall monument behind him of the patriot with the rifle.

He stared up, then back to the man he once called a… brother.

He stared at his feet emotions overwhelming him, and sat down again; attempting to swallow the lump in his throat- but it just wouldn't go down.

"You, uh… you… you remember, then?" he croaked. Stupid question.

"Yes, I remember as if it happened yesterday...'' Arthur trailed off, turning on his heel to look into crowds of people, sighing sadly. A crack shot through the air, making the Brit jump. None of the humans seemed to notice the clouds becoming thicker, the sound of a gunshot echoing around them.

At the loud sound, Alfred looked up, his heart pounding again.

He was back… he was in his uniform, running through the woods with his army again, using tactics taught by the Indians, grin broad on his face- it was the eighteenth century- he was sixteen again.

He clutched the rifle tightly to his chest, trying his hardest not to make any noise. He leaned against a tree, looking around at the rest of his men- _his_ army. For once, instead of watching battles… he was fighting his own.

"Oi, Jones, over here," one of them whispered.

He looked over and saw a comrade- Frederickson- gesturing him to come over to the opening in the vines.

He crept over. "Look at them. What're they doing out there like that?"

He peeked out and saw his brother's army- just standing there, right in the middle of the fields in their brightly decorated red coats, their drummer boy standing still as well. He frowned. What was Art up to…?

Arthur's army stood stock still, seemingly frozen in place. Arthur blinked, gasping at the sudden change of scenery. He was back in the war that changed his life. Clenching his fists, he wondered why fate wanted to torture him.

"Jones? Jones, what are they doing?"

He turned around. "Oh, uh… seems like they want to… talk…"

The man stared at him as if he were mad. "Talk? Talk? We're in the middle of a war, and they want to talk?"

He looked at the other. "Yeah… Ar-uh… the reds want to talk."

The expression on Frederickson's face made him scowl. "Look, I know my brother, alright? This could be the first signs of a treaty or something!" he hissed, soft enough so no one else could hear.

The man squinted, then sighed. "Whatever you say, _Captain America_," he whispered back.

He had to smile at that. It sounded like a fitting name….

"England, sir! Look!" the young drummer boy yelled, the English soldiers springing to life. Arthur jumped, whirling to face the woods behind them. A white flag appeared through the trees, and he could almost make out his brother's mop of hair.

"Faster," he grumbled, "we look like idiots going this slow."

They went forward to ten feet away from the opposing army.

He looked up, frowning. "Something you want to ask me, then? Anything you have to say for yourself?" He winced, seeing the other man react similarly. Images of his childhood flashed back at him, of his older brother scolding him.

"_Do you have anything to say for yourself?"_

_ "Yeah, I do! I didn't chop down the tree! George did and he said so himself!"_

_ "Blimey, Alfred, this has gone far enough! You apologize to Mr. Washington _and_ his son George this instant!"_

He shook his head. No… that was the past. They were fighting a war now….

Arthur watched tiredly as the rebels approached. He shook slightly in his boots, fingers brushing slightly against his rifle. A sharp, quick pain shot through his heart, an old, weathered part weakening slightly. It was only a few years away from breaking completely with the American's independence. This was a memory...was it not? Why did it hurt like it did back then?

Somewhere back in present time, he was clutching his head, eyes squinted shut, trying to block the memory out completely.

No… this was not how it happened. This was not what had happened. They were still brothers- weren't they? Brothers forever…

But again, history proved him wrong. He made history, for goodness sake. His mind returned to the eighteenth century.

His determined gaze never left the other man's bright green eyes- determined and defiant; he was going to win this war- the first war he'd ever been in.

Arthur opened his mouth- as if to say something- and then…

And then… he knew what had happened all too well, but it still took him by surprise.

A shot rang out. Loud and clear, it carried across the fields, across the streets, through every house.

And there was a pang in his young heart. For he had witnessed death in battle for the first time in his young life. He had witnessed it with his own eyes.

The man collapsed to the ground, and Alfred's ears rang. He could hear himself shout… but it didn't seem like his voice anymore.

"Frederickson…" he mumbled, then louder, "Frederickson!"

He turned to his… brother… with a renewed hatred in his eyes. He thought war was just a game… a game that he had watched his brother play a million times before. It was just a game… But how could he…?

Arthur was shocked, to say the least. He couldn't believe that one of his own would shoot without his clearance. What was going through that soldier's mind? Glancing down to see the American's reaction, he winced. The hatred that the boy possessed was burning. A part of his heart began to hurt more as his brother was pushed another step away from him. Clenching his fists, he wanted to lash out at his soldier as rebel soldier fell to the ground. This was the last chance to repair the relationship between the motherland and new world, and it was ruined.

The first thing that popped into Alfred's mind- retreat or… attack? _Retreat, attack, retreat, attack, retreat, attack…_

"SIR!"

He turned around to see a young soldier, only sixteen, with tears in his eyes… The man's brother…

"Sir, what now?"

"Four of you… get Frederickson a…" It was too late for a doctor now… "Get John away. The rest of you…"

He choked out the last words- the last _word_. For if he wanted to play at war… if he wanted to play as good as the man standing across from him- for he no longer dared to say the word that slipped off his tongue so naturally to describe the other- he had to give his all.

"_Attack_."

At the declaration, Arthur sprang into action, running behind to the back of the troops to be able to assess the entire battle. When he was alone in the back, he allowed himself to angrily stomp the ground, glaring at the sky. The sounds of battle echoed all around him, the sickening sound of death pounding in his ears. As each person, "patriot" or loyalist, died, their names flashed through his mind. The patriots' voices grew softer until they were merely a whisper. Soon, Alfred would become fully aware of the loss of his people.

Alfred's head burned, his knees shook, as he shouted out orders- to dying people. People with lives… with family… He knew these men. He'd worked with these men before… They were friends, dammit. And as the fallen man's brother fell, stomach bleeding, blood seeping through the corners of his mouth, he collapsed to his knees. He was stupid, to ever think that the _redcoat_- and he thought the name with more brutality and hatred than before- had wanted to negotiate. The man wanted to kill. He was stupid to ever think of attacking their army. He was stupid- to not retreat. He knew they had made history today, he could feel it. But this was not how he thought a war would be. This was not what he planned. This was not just a game anymore. It was a matter of life and death. He snarled, and climbed- more like crawled- to his feet.

"Retreat, all of you, back to the trees! Leave the dead, we'll collect them later."

Arthur watched the rebels retreat, his side cheering at their victory. He could only mourn the loss of many of his own. Shutting his eyes to suppress an oncoming headache. If the boy wanted freedom, he'd have to go through the pain of becoming a nation. And Arthur was sure that he'd come back, crying and admitting that he wasn't ready for independence. All he had to do was fight.

Back in a small clearing in the trees, in full view of his men- the ones that were left, that was- he kicked a tree, its leaves blown off in the fall. Tears of anger spilled, but he swallowed them back- just like he swallowed back his heart down his throat. The men, injured and weakened, were probably questioning yet again why they had such a young man as their leader. Why they had a _teenager_ as a leader. They were probably planning to overthrow him… They didn't know. No one knew except John- and he was dead. They were all dead. Dead, dead, _dead_.

"Sir… the redcoats are celebrating, sir. You ordered us to retreat… we lost…"

He lifted his head up to stare at the sky- the clouds had parted, now the sun was shining down upon them- his lips set taut in a straight line.

"Shut up, Johnson, let the man rest, you foolish ne'er-do-well."

He looked behind him to find all of the men- _his _men- smiling, expressions ranging from mischievous to friendly.

"We're going to get them back. I can promise you that," he declared.

They all shouted in full witness of the sky.

A gust of wind shot through the field, sending Arthur's hair over his eyes. White surrounded him momentarily, slowly melting away to reveal the present day. Alfred sat on the edge of the statue, clutching his head. He was still in the world of the past, reliving his first experience of war. Arthur could do nothing but seat himself next to the American, sighing tiredly.

Alfred was back to his normal self again, yes, opening his eyes because he didn't want to go onto the Boston Tea Party… a prank that was meant for too much harm… So many memories… He sat still for a moment before looking up at the sky- the sun was peeking through the clouds again. He looked behind him at the statue of John Frederick- Minuteman, identity lost to the world- and smiled. He wished he could pluck up the courage and tell the man sitting right next to him, the past was the past. He wished he could pluck up the courage and ask him for forgiveness. But he couldn't, even if he _was_ brave enough. He was his own nation now.

"I'm sorry I was such a pain," he said broadly, out of the blue.

Raising an eyebrow, Arthur chuckled softly.

"_Was_ such a pain? You still are, you dolt."

Alfred creased his brows, smile on his lips.

"And you're still an ass of a br- guy. I'm trying to have a moment here."

He looked at the other, grinning now.

"Point is, you're a jerk. And you always will be."

"Now that's the pot calling the kettle black." Arthur chuckled, running a hand through his hair. He felt tired for some reason, blaming on their sudden flashback.

Alfred turned his attention on the sun, which was hovering over a nearby hill, now. He didn't comment on the British phrase… he had been used to it when he was little.

He pursed his lips. "You know… if I could go back in time… I wouldn't have changed things one bit."

"And neither would I. Though, maybe, I'd go back and make sure you wouldn't swing poor bulls around when you were bored." Arthur chuckled, nudging Alfred with his elbow.

Alfred cocked his head to the side. "But… they liked it, right?"

"Who knows. I can't speak bull." He chuckled at Alfred's childishness.

Alfred shrugged. "Well they seemed to like it…"

He turned his head and looked honestly at the other man beside him. "You know… I haven't heard you laugh in a while."

"Oh, I guess I haven't. I'm a rather cross old man, according to the Frog. Maybe he's correct for once..."

His eyes flitted to the Brit, shocked he actually agreed with _France_ of all people on something. He started laughing until he realized he was serious.

He sighed. "You've always been…" He turned his head back to the sunset, laughing again. "Took you so long to realize, too."

"_Always_ _been?_I've been quite hilarious in the past, I might say!" Arthur cried in defense, his good mood souring. Of course the American had to say that.

"Stop your laughing and come on. I'm making dinner for payback."

And of _course_, Alfred stopped laughing. "Oh God no… Uhh… How 'bout we just go out for dinner? My treat!"

"Sure," Arthur shrugged, rolling his eyes. "If you'll shut up." And so, the two brothers walked off, the older of the two smacking Alfred on the head for no reason whatsoever.


End file.
